?*?∞:?.?「Fugo Loveposting」?.?:∞?*?

In which you give Fugo a haircut. (And he may or may not be flustered about it.)

     Hello, I still live! Happy New Years!
Anyway, ignoring the fact that I may be kinda rusty—So you know how some people draw Fugo very albino with freckles and very white hair and very red eyes? YEAH. It dawned on me that he (kinda sorta) looks like a lil white red-eyed bunny and I've been physically unable to let that thought go ever since, SO this fic's Fugo looks like that.

I drew him and someone called him "scrunkly", so now he's officially scrunkly! (whatever that means??) Thanks for coming to my TEDtalk.

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Like every morning, the pale, freckled face on the mirror stared back at him with dark circles under his eyes. He splashed cold water on his face, though the sleepiness wouldn't fully go away until he'd had his morning coffee. Midway through brushing his bangs out of his face, Fugo paused. Thin fingers pinched a few strands of hair and pulled them down. He blinked.

When stretched like that, split ends only shied away from touching his jawline by a centimeter or two.

"It's getting long, isn't it?"

Narancia glanced at him, toothbrush in his mouth. He raised a brow at Fugo's question and watched him glare daggers into the mirror. He shrugged and spat out what was on his mouth before leaning into the faucet.

After a couple rinses, he looked up at Fugo. "I dunno, you look normal to me."

Fugo didn't bother turning his head, his eyes welded into the red of his reflection's. "No, it's definitely getting long."

"Your hair's always kind of a mess, dude."

"You're one to talk," Fugo snapped back, picking up his comb. His scowl died down as fast as it came. "Plus, I wasn't asking you."

"Whatever," Narancia grumbled. He only ran his fingers through his hair before walking past Fugo and out of the bathroom.

Fugo set down his mug and plate on the kitchen table and took a seat beside Bucciarati. Narancia sprinted for the couch, claiming the TV remote before Mista could. Mista couldn't care less, busy chatting with Giorno by the window seat. Abbacchio wasn't present, so it was only Fugo and Bucciarati on the table.

That is until you set down your own mug, opposite to his. It was blue.

He observed you as you sat down, tucked some of your hair behind your ear and smiled serenely. Bucciarati greeted you the same way he'd greeted Fugo minutes earlier.

"Good morning, [y/n]."

"Good morning, Bucciarati, Fugo." You replied, polite as ever.

Fugo stopped nibbling on his cinnamon roll to look at you. You smiled in his direction with characteristic warmth. He looked away.

"Good morning," he said.

"Did you sleep well?" You asked, your eyes on his. Fidgeting with his fingers underneath the table, he nodded and your smile widened in response. "Good."

He swallowed.

Then your eyes finally left him. "What about you, Bucciarati?" You continued.

"I slept well, thank you," Bucciarati said. You smiled for him the same way, with the same warmth, humming in approval. Bucciarati posed his hands on the table, fingers intertwined. "Are you not hungry, [y/n]?"